


The drop that broke the camel's back

by Blablia87



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop, First Kiss, Love, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:06:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blablia87/pseuds/Blablia87
Summary: The straw that broke the camel's back - or, to put it better, the chalice - was a tiny tear of Barolo that, almost oblivious to gravity, decided to strictly abandon the crystal glass between the thin fingers of the demon Crowley ending up in the exact center of the left cheek of the angel Aziraphale, standing - strutting awkwardly delicious - a few steps away from him.





	The drop that broke the camel's back

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Just a very very brief note to apologize for my terrible English. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I do not have many opportunities to practice ...  
> I still hope that the story is clear enough!
> 
> Cheers from Italy! :D

To friends, real ones,

that would follow you to the end of the world ...

and beyond.

 

 

 

“ _So please don’t go_

_Don’t leave me here all by myself_

_I get ever so lonely from time to time_

_I will find you anywhere you go_

_I’ll be right behind you_

_Right until the ends of the earth_ ”

 

(Queen – You take my breath away)

 

 

 

The story of camouflage among men - dressing and, above all, acting like them - in order to be able to carry out their work in the best way, escaped from their hands on a rainy autumn afternoon.

 

The straw that broke the camel's back - or, rather, the chalice - was a tiny tear of Barolo that - almost oblivious to gravity (omnipotence and similar stuff, remember?) - decided to abandon the crystal edge of the tight glass between Crowley's tapered fingers - sitting cross-legged on a voluminous pile of books in a corner of Aziraphale's bookstore, where they had met to celebrate a new conceived and then "surprising" wrongdoing, divinely thwarted even before it was done - for finishing in the exact center of the left cheek of the angel Aziraphale, standing - strutting awkwardly delicious - a few steps away from him.

 

 

"Oops!", Let the Demon escape, barely holding back a laugh in front of the astonished gaze that, thanks to the quantity of alcohol ingested, was surfacing unnaturally slowly on the other's face.

 

"You could have stained my jacket!" The Angel whispered in a calmly worried tone, his white face flushed with wine and the effort not to give in to the temptation to open his vest to give his mortal body a little indecent rest and shirt that wrapped it.

 

"I would have - Crowley agreed - but I didn't," he finished, leaning forward and swinging the glass a few centimeters from the face of the Angel. "I always have control over my actions-"

 

"Actions", he wanted to say, as it is easy to understand even without the omniscience that - listen to me, you would not have put it to good use - I decided to reserve only for me (and not always: it is tiring even for God to be everywhere and to know everything, believe me.)

 

However: "actions" would have meant. Surprisingly (only for him), his actions were not as much under his control as he believed. The result was that Aziraphale was hit by a shower of Italian red wine which, this time, ended up hitting his precious vest fatally.

 

The Angel parted his lips, shocked, a single thought imprinted in his mind in large letters (only another word had the power to appear with such majesty at the center of his angelic intellect, and began with "Armag" to end with a inner cry well hidden by a flaming sword while Satan emerged from the center of an aerial runway in the middle of nowhere in the English countryside): "The stain will remain..."

 

Crowley, to whom the Fall had taken away a lot (think that you don't remember all my angels, perhaps? I have a very good memory, as well as a good view) but not the ability, when wanted, to empathize with those close to him (in every sense you want to interpret these words), seemed to read in the mind clouded by the alcohol of the other.

 

He jumped up and, with a theatrical gesture, blew (maybe I gave too much power to this practice, from giving life to clay to removing stains from clothes ... I have to make a note about it) away the wine from the other's dress, pouring it again in his own glass.

 

"Here, Angelo," he said, raising one side of his lips in a sketchy smile. "I can’t bear your bad mood. It makes you look like a wrinkle right in the middle of your face", he quipped, touching a point in the center of Angel’s forehead with a slightly displaced movement. «About fac-»

"Face", he wanted to say. Even here, no particular power to be able to understand it. What instead flashed through his mind nobody can say. No, neither do I. Remember? Even God needs, from time to time, to stop being omniscient. I have developed a button for this.

 

Anyway: "face", he wanted to say. Instead, he went ahead and darted his tongue quickly out of his lips, going to strike - gently, just a little targeted pressure - at the exact spot where the first drop of wine (the one that will soon overflow the entire glass) had gone to pose.

 

Aziraphale widened his eyes, startled, shifting his gaze to the elongated irises of the other. As an angel, Crowley had beautiful green eyes. I had chosen to survive some traces of that color, created only a few hours ago specifically for him, amidst the saturated yellow that was then assigned, waiting for this precise moment (what do you think, that only Agnes Nutter knows how to make beautiful and accurate prophecies? Who do you think he took lessons from?). Yes, because those veins were only visible at a distance that Crowley would never have given to anyone. To no one, of course, that it was not a divine being. Dear. Thoughtful. Patient. In one word: Soft.

 

Now, you have to imagine that angels and demons are not the only beings capable of blocking time. There are children, for example. And the post office employees. And then, of course, here i am. I know every angel of mine (fallen or not) like Aziraphale knows every book in his library. And speaking of this Angel specifically, I know that he was dreaming of that moment roughly from the escape of an impulsive unicorn a few hours after the opening of the boarding for the most eventful ship journey in history. I also know, for the same reason, that more than once he had found himself on the verge of taking the initiative, always ending up giving himself - according to his canons, the result of a clumsy instruction by Gabriel - "decent" escape. And this is why, strangely and without aaaaaany divine intervention, the time in the library of the angel Aziraphale stopped the necessary period (forty-three minutes and twelve seconds, otherwise you would have continued to think only of this, losing the best) so that our Angel understood that the human practice of kissing on the lips was not the antechamber of Hell (as Gabriel had always told him) but, at the opposite, a small apology note from Paradise for the hasty expelled from his garden, and decided to experiment it without too many feelings of guilt.

 

Crowley, who vice versa carefully reflected on this aspect more or less of his first vision of 'Romeo and Juliet' in the company of the Angel (yes, the Globe Theater was still deserted, back then ... and yes, again, that “Love, love madly, love more than you can and if they say that it`s sin, love your sin and you`ll be innocent” had been Aziraphale's idea, although it was based only on a theory), gave in to the new experience with the same pliability with which a slightly disproportionate head Cerberus had accepted, not much some time before to being called "Dog" and turning into a docile puppy, waiting patiently for the next forty-three minutes and ten seconds to pass.

 

The famous chalice, instead, broke about a minute later, when Crowley, an amused smile pressed on the other's lips, took his face in his hands before leaping nimbly backwards on the same pile of books on which everything it could be said that it had begun.

 

Yes, I like circularity. It's so perfect ... divine, can't you find?

 

And the happy ending, of course.

 

This is why I let their paths cross so often, in these centuries.

An angel and a demon who love each other are the perfect message I want to convey: love is completeness. It is an equality given by the sum of two differences. I got it?

 

 

Don't listen to Gabriel ... he never understood that my plan is ineffable, not bigot.

 

 

 


End file.
